


vaudevillian girls and violin strings

by frostbitten



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, How Do I Tag, it's only alternate in that my amell joined up with the inquisition after here lies the abyss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6550300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbitten/pseuds/frostbitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She studies them all for a moment, pondering on the best way to make them all go away, and then an innocuous waggle of her fingers sees to it that the tray of drinks Cullen had been stuck with pitches out of his hands and sloshes champagne all over the fronts of their dresses. The women sputter and storm off, jabbering angrily in Orlesian, while the men give him disgusted looks (she assumes so, at least; it’s difficult to tell due to their masks)—nothing is more undesirable than a clumsy oaf in a court of grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	vaudevillian girls and violin strings

**Author's Note:**

> Just a self-indulgent AU I cooked up and decided to share with other Cullen/Amell fans. I may do more ficlets in this universe if y'all're interested (and if I can find the time and inspiration).
> 
> Background knowledge you didn't ask for: the Inquisitor sided with the rebel mages and did Here Lies The Abyss before Wicked Eyes And Wicked Hearts. My canon Inquisitor (Afarin Lavellan) left Stroud in the Fade and kept the remaining Grey Wardens as allies, but it doesn't really matter in this work (although, seeing as Hawke is Amell's second cousin...if I'd left them in the Fade, I'd probably have written something about it. Sorry, Stroud).

“Still in her Warden blues, even as a guest of the Inquisition? How brash!” A woman says, tittering behind her ornate jewel-encrusted mask—her laugh tells the mage everything she needs to know about her intended meaning. The mask catches the dim lighting; the lighting, Sorcha supposes, is meant to be romantic, but she just finds it bothersome—how is anyone meant to see anything? Not that she particularly _wants_ to see these Orlesian nobles who are eager to see her stumble, see her make a mistake so they can dissect it, dissect _her_ , in front of their friends (in front of her). She won’t, Sorcha resolves, consciously relaxing her muscles instead of balling her hands into fists like she wants to. She won’t give them a reason to laugh at her. She almost regrets not wearing a mask, but the Inquisitor and their forces aren’t either, and Sorcha sees no need to stick out more than she does already. She isn’t part of the Inquisitor’s inner circle; why in the Maker's name would she be wearing the same outfit as they are? The mage smooths out an invisible wrinkle in her Grey Warden robes. Of course she’s wearing her Warden blues, especially after Adamant. The Wardens had rescued her from Kinloch Hold, had saved her a fate worse than death; Sorcha owes them everything, and she needs Thedas (particularly Orlais) to know that she’s still very much in the Wardens’ corner.

She says nothing, of course—even had she not been striving to be on her best above-it-all behaviour, Sorcha thinks she hardly would’ve felt the need to confront her. The woman wants to get a reaction; that was the whole point of her comment, and Sorcha doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing her remark had made her feel _anything_.

Apparently even being announced as the former Arlessa of Amaranthine, former Warden-Commander of Ferelden’s forces, Vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, Archdemon Slayer, Lady Amell of Kirkwall, and the Hero of Ferelden does nothing to deter the nobles from picking her apart—Sorcha understands this; she herself thinks her titles are far too grandiose and gaudy for one such as her, though she could’ve done without the mention of her former arling and being Ferelden’s ex-Commander of the Grey; some hurts are still too fresh, will always be too fresh, regardless of however many years pass. The mage doesn’t know what happened to the Fereldan Wardens ( _her_ Wardens, her mind helpfully supplies); they’ve all disappeared, and even though she doesn’t particularly believe in the Maker on the best of days, she shoots off a quick silent prayer that they hadn’t met their grisly ends in Adamant Fortress. Nathaniel, with his dry humour and quickness with a bow (he has a fondness for children; her heart is saddened anew when she remembers it is likely he will never have any), Velanna, her bones and sinew bleeding with magic and a burning need to rectify the injustices done to her people (she has a hidden, softer side, but Sorcha remembers her the way she ought to be), Sigrun, all compassion and kindness stitched with unshakable loyalty (and weapons, plenty of weapons), Anders…Justice…she swallows hard, mindful of the merciless eyes watching, waiting. She does not know what happened to Anders and Justice; she does not know if they yet live (she knows they’ve merged, that no scholar could tell where one ends and the other begins), but…she hopes with a fierceness that does nothing to reassure her. She’s already lost Surana, lost Jowan, and has effectively lost Cullen; Sorcha has no wish for the small numbers of Kinloch Hold to dwindle further. She has no idea where Finn is, though she suspects he and Ariane are adventuring together still, happy and (denying being) in love, and the thought does a little to assuage her grief.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” she hears a man say, voice tinged with more discomfort than embarrassment—she had known him well once, as well as a mage could reasonably know a respectable templar (not well enough), but that was over a decade ago; it may as well have been in a different lifetime.

Perhaps Cullen isn’t as lost to her as she’d thought, she muses, vaguely aware of her feet moving in the direction of the voice she’d heard. The voice’s owner is surrounded by a gaggle of Orlesian noblewomen (and a couple of noblemen), looking for all the world like he’s never faced down anything more fearsome. She studies them all for a moment, pondering on the best way to make them all go away, and then an innocuous waggle of her fingers sees to it that the tray of drinks Cullen had been stuck with pitches out of his hands and sloshes champagne all over the fronts of their dresses. The women sputter and storm off, jabbering angrily in Orlesian, while the men give him disgusted looks (she assumes so, at least; it’s difficult to tell due to their masks)—nothing is more undesirable than a clumsy oaf in a court of grace. She can see a touch of panic twist Cullen’s features, warring with relief, and the mage winces. He’d surely felt her magic dancing in the air as she’d cast. Time to reveal herself, then, lest he become convinced that there were enemy mages in his midst tonight (which there are, but neither of them know that).

“Hello,” Sorcha says cautiously, remembering the last words they’d spoken to each other—she doesn’t blame him; she never has, but she’s nervous now, this is a bad idea; he must hate her—

“Amel—Warden-Commander?” He asks, throat working.

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.” A sad smile curves her lips. “I’m just Warden Amell, now.”

“You were never _just_ anything,” he argues, surprising them both, and Cullen snorts wryly. “Right. I suppose I have you to thank for granting me a reprieve from the nobles?”

“None other.” She looks at him apologetically. “I’m sorry for—for doing that without asking you.” They both know what she’s trying to say, and Cullen manages a smile and rubs the back of his neck.

“I’ve never apologized to you for the things I said to you the last time I spoke. They were unkind, untoward, unworthy of me.” Sorcha shakes her head, effectively him shutting up.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Cullen. I’ve never held that against you.”

“How could you not?” He counters, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “I never imagined you’d make it so easy. I certainly didn’t make it so easy for myself.”

“You don’t need to torture yourself on my account,” she says, fumbling for something, _anything,_ to say.

Cullen laughs—it’s a mirthless sort of laugh. “I’ll be certain to keep that in mind.” She can hear the clack of the noblewomen’s shoes against the marble of the palace floor; they’re certainly heading in their direction. She holds out a hand to Cullen.

“Dance with me.” It comes out as more of an order than a request; Sorcha blinks, startled. She hadn’t mean to use what Sigrun had dubbed as her ‘Commander voice;’ she’d never have purposely used it on Cullen. A blush spreads itself across her cheeks, splotchy and uneven. “That is, er…please. Please, dance with me?” Cullen looks at her, wordlessly, and she drops her hand as if it’d been burned. “Forgive me.” She turns to leave.

“Is this real?” His voice is so soft, so disbelieving…she isn’t certain she was supposed to hear it.

“I haven’t seen anything to indicate otherwise,” the mage says, slowly proffering her hand to him once more. “I promise you; I’m real.” He’s hesitant—his hand stops mere millimeters before it touches hers. She wants to push their hands together, wants to feel his skin against hers (warm and solid), wants—she wants, but she waits—for all of her faults, she is in no hurry to rush him. He laces his fingers with hers; it’s a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes to her.

“I believe you said something about a dance?” Cullen says, lips curving up into a soft, nearly wistful smile. The song the minstrels play is slow, and one of his hands is on her waist and the other is holding her hand, and their eyes meet, and for a moment, everything is perfect. Naturally, that’s when all hell breaks loose. Grand Duchess Florianne and Grand Duke Gaspard had been conspiring with Corypheus to assassinate Empress Celene, and an elven woman named Briala had wanted to depose her—Sorcha thinks that’s what everyone is saying after the hubbub dies down, anyway. She has never been one for politics, not even within the Circle (not even as an Arlessa, she had been too honest), and so she drowns most of the chatter out. The mage is a Warden, not a politician (not anymore), and Wardens are meant to remain neutral in conflicts such as these, so she hangs back quietly, observing what occurs next with keen eyes.

For reasons unbeknownst to her, the Inquisitor supports Celene, in turn causing Briala to be exiled from Orlais and Gaspard to be led away for execution. She watches this all happen, warm brown eyes and calloused hands occupying the thoughts in the back of her mind, thoughts that include a first and possibly a last dance cut short. Celene sees no need to end the fête early, not even after everything that had happened. Sorcha snorts. _Orlesians._

She’s getting ready to depart when she sees Cullen striding over to her, apprehension and hope warring on his face, and she isn’t certain which will win.

“It occurs to me that our dance was interrupted,” he says, sheepish. “I was wondering if perhaps we could have another.”

“I suppose I would be alright with that,” the mage replies, unable to stop herself from smiling, and it only widens when Cullen takes her hand and leads her to a secluded balcony adjacent to the ballroom.

“Here?” She asks, and he grins, more confident away from the prying eyes of the nobles, before taking her hand.

“But there’s no music!” Cullen puts a finger against his own lips, but it’s directed at her, and she quiets down. Ah. She can still hear the minstrels, and—surprise, surprise—another slow song is being played.

“May I have this dance?” He asks, surprisingly serious, and Sorcha nods, throat suddenly dry. She will allow him this (and more, he only has to request it and if she can grant it to him, she will). He takes her hand once more and settles his other on her hip, and they begin to move together again, and he’s looking at her, actually seeing her and not just her title, and she’s twenty again with her heart on her sleeve and an ill-advised infatuation with a templar (for it wasn’t love, couldn’t have been love. Not there. But here…?).

“I’m a Grey Warden,” she says, not realizing she’s spoken aloud until Cullen laughs—it’s a genuine laugh, this time, rich and warm.

“I’m aware of that, yes,” he replies, twirling her with more skill than she’d have expected from him.

“And you’re no longer a templar,” Sorcha continues, because she can’t stop, not when she’s already started. The mage sees Cullen falter for a moment; she can almost hear him wince. “Forgive me, I didn’t…I wasn’t saying that to hurt you. I only…” She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. “I think of you, often. Even after everything that happened, everything that we’ve done…is it too late?”

“For what?” He’s cautious, but she can see him clinging to hope.

“For…for us.” Her voice is soft, perhaps too soft to be heard as he dips her…or perhaps not, as evidenced by the near-frantic way he searches her face after pulling her up, as if she would lie to him about this.

“The two of us, together?”

“I loved you when we were young, Cullen.” He touches her cheek, reverently, tracing the deep scar there.

“And now?” She doesn’t answer him, not with words—she turns her head and kisses the inside of his palm. He makes a choked sound before wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her neck.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Amell, I—”

“You can say my given name,” she says, interrupting him.

“ _Sorcha,_ ” Cullen murmurs, his voice brooked with awe and longing and a thousand other emotions; the force of his regard makes her tremble. Their first kiss is not perfect—they bump noses twice before their lips touch, and Sorcha is still laughing when Cullen’s lips brush against hers—but it’s _theirs_ in a way that it never could’ve been before, and the enthusiasm and passion they show each other more than makes up for it.

“Where will you go, when this is over?” Cullen asks, several kisses later (and Sorcha burns the image of his mussed hair and swollen lips into her mind’s eye; that is _definitely_ something she will think about in the privacy of her quarters).

“I was planning to stay at Skyhold, for the time being,” she says, leaning against him. “The Wardens that are left…well. I’m the senior-most member of the order. They need me.”

“As do I,” Cullen says quietly, anxiety still present on his face and in his voice. The mage reassures him with a kiss to his shoulder—he can hardly feel it through his tunic, but the Commander flushes all the same and gathers her into his arms again. The Inquisition and the Empress can wait just a little while longer.


End file.
